


Oscillate Wildly

by suntipped



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:38:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suntipped/pseuds/suntipped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fucking Arthur, he thinks, pushing his head against the seat. It’s not so much that he’s breaking promises left and right by bringing up that thing between them in public again; it's just his ever-irritating sense of entitlement. It’s Arthur being a prick and thinking he can go around doing anything he wants sometimes, because obviously, obviously the entire world exists only to amuse him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oscillate Wildly

**Author's Note:**

> (Written for [this](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/19042.html?thread=18513250#t18513250).)

Merlin wakes with a splintering headache. He squints open his eyes, and the sunshine feels like a tangible burn on his face. Lying flat on his back, it takes about six and a half minutes to remember where he is and how he’s even gotten there; the room’s white walls are irritatingly bright with light, so it must be well into late morning. His gaze lands on a familiar pair of shoes by the closet and then he _does_ remember—a half-horrified groan wrenches its way out of his throat, and a flush crawls all the way down his neck: _oh_ , he thinks. _Last night._ He thuds his head backwards onto the mattress and winces at the cracking sound it makes. Last night. Last fucking night.

\--

“This isn’t going to be awkward, is it?”

Arthur’s tone is light, conversational—leaning against the kitchen counter of their shared flat, hands doing something with a letter-opener, not even looking in Merlin’s direction.

It’s a bit of a relief and a bit of a disappointment, considering that for the past quarter of an hour, Merlin’s been stumbling around Arthur’s bedroom trying to work out a way to do this morning-after thing in a dignified manner. There should be some sort of guidebook for it, Merlin thinks. How to speak to your flatmate (your stupid, obnoxious, originally-perceived-to-be-entirely-uninterested-and-more-importantly-heterosexual flatmate) after you’ve gone and _slept with him_ in a late-night bout of exhaustion, intoxication, and completely inadvisable decision-making. 

Er. Again.

Merlin realizes that there’s probably a lesson in here somewhere (move somewhere else; get yourself a life; stop buying cheap beer), but he’s still too stubborn to really pay too much attention to it.

He chooses to feign innocence, not that it’s ever worked: “What is?”

Arthur stills, glancing up briefly to give him a _look_ , before going back to fiddling with random objects on the counter.

Which explains both everything and nothing.

“Of course not,” Merlin sighs, resigned to giving up the pretense, pulling unconsciously at the collar of his shirt. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the microwave as he steps around to the fridge, scowling at the mad tufts of hair and red pillow-lines gracing his forehead.

“Because I really don’t do awkward.”

Pulling out a carton of orange juice and setting it on the counter with a thunk, Merlin says, “It’s not.”

He has to wonder if they’ve had this conversation before. After that first time, waking up pressed together in the same bed, they’d cleared their throats and just not talked about it by mutual understanding. Painfully forced interaction had resulted for the next several weeks, but it had eventually passed unmentioned. And then there had been that other time Arthur slammed him against the wall and kissed him, a month or so later, but he was fairly drunk and ended up vomiting onto the sofa, and Merlin was _not_ going to bring it up, ever.

“Good,” Arthur is saying from behind him. “That’s settled. So we agree that you’ll—“

“Just forget about it, yeah,” Merlin says, at the exact same time Arthur says,

“—come to Leon’s thing with me tonight?”

There’s a moment.

“What?” Merlin spins around, and then regrets it as his head protests and begins to spin the world dizzily before his eyes. He stumbles a bit. “What does that have to do with. With.”

Arthur shoots out a hand to steady his shoulder, barely preventing a graceless crash to the hard tile ground. His eyebrows are raised—utterly calm, the picture of absolute sobriety. Fucking Arthur. There is nothing whatsoever to suggest the fact that he’d imbibed just as much alcohol as Merlin had, a dozen hours previously.

“—Do with anything. Like your date? Like as your date?” Merlin finishes asking, huffing and pulling his arm away.

“It’s not,” Arthur begins.

“Leon’s—wait. Wait. Leon’s thing tonight as in his _engagement_ party? You want me to go to an engagement party with you as your date?”

“Are you always this irritating when you’re hungover? Stop. Don’t answer that. You are. I know you are; I’ve seen you.”

Merlin says, sounding more panicked than he means, “Are you asking me to an engagement party as your date?”

Arthur grits his teeth and does that thing where he tries to appear long-suffering and endlessly patient, but really it just ends up looking like he’s experiencing mild stomach pain. “ _No_ ,” he says, drawing out the syllable for emphasis. “I am not. You were, if you remember, actually invited to go to this thing yourself. Weeks ago.”

“Oh,” Merlin says. The ground finally stabilizes itself around him, and he blinks. “Okay, so. Like. As friends.”

“Obviously. What else?” Arthur shoots him a curious, bemused glance and reaches around Merlin for the orange juice carton. He digs a glass out of nowhere and pours a good amount of liquid in it, helpfully sliding it across the counter to Merlin.

“Thanks,” Merlin mumbles, wrapping a hand around the cool glass and purposefully ignoring the question.

Arthur just rolls his eyes, claps him on the back, and walks off.

Not awkward, Merlin thinks, standing there in the kitchen by himself. Not awkward. Sure. He can do that.

\--

Except that he can’t.

Leon’s party is pleasant enough. Fun, actually. Most of the people there are Arthur’s friends, but Merlin knows a fair percentage of them, especially through Gwen, who was the one to set Merlin up with sharing a flat with Arthur in the first place when he’d moved to the city nearly a whole year ago. In that time, possibly because of Arthur’s insistence on dragging him around his social functions for months, these people have somehow adopted him into their family of friends.

Merlin is in the middle of congratulating Leon and his new fiancée, the three of them standing and chatting at the edge of the crowd on one side of Leon’s living room, when Arthur sidles up and startles him by touching a warm hand to his side.

“Hey,” Merlin says, turning.

“Can I use your phone?”

“What’s wrong with yours?”

“Left it at the flat,” Arthur says, tapping a rhythm against Merlin’s skin in step with the background music, something soft and French. “A favor, yeah?” 

He doesn’t shift his hand away, so the movement of Merlin reaching into his pocket displaces it, fingers sliding down naturally Merlin’s waist.

Merlin fidgets. “Here.” He passes over his mobile, aware of their friends’ curious gazes.

Arthur flashes a wide smile at him, something gleaming in his eye. And then: 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, breathing lightly at Merlin’s ear before he turns his back and walks away, casual and easy, almost unconsciously so.

Leon laughs. His fiancée laughs. They’re supposed to. It’s a joke; Merlin and Arthur being together, it’s been a stupid joke for a while now, an ongoing sort of side-thing, ever since Arthur’s step-sister made that one crack about them acting like an old married couple. 

But it makes Merlin’s heartbeat seize up, unexpected and illogical, and he has to focus all of his attention on shoving down a horrible red flush, because shit, shit, shit, all he can think of is the way that last word curls so well on Arthur’s lips when they’re pressed up against Merlin’s throat, his hands wandering tightly down his body, bare hips rocking into Merlin’s. The previous night suddenly comes hurtling back in vivid technicolor flashes, touches and sounds and words—

“Merlin? You’re blushing,” Leon tells him incredulously, eyebrows heading for the ceiling.

“What?” He coughs into the cuff of one arm, angling away. “No, I—dust particles! Allergies—! Excuse me,” and he makes his not-so-subtle exit, pushing clumsily away in search of the balcony door for some fresh, cold air.

Sometimes he really despairs of the state of his life.

Later that night, after the party, Merlin’s ready and waiting when Arthur walks through the front door of their flat.

“Oh, so you _are_ already here,” is what Arthur greets him with as he shuts the door behind him, yawning, one hand lazily loosening the knot of his tie. “Did you leave early? We could have shared a cab, you kn—“

“What the hell was that tonight?” Merlin demands, over him.

Arthur looks startled. “What was. What?”

“That. . . come on, don’t try and pretend. The _thing_ , earlier tonight.”

“What thing?”

“Stop doing that!”

“I’ve not one single idea of what you’re even talking about, Merlin!”

Drawing himself up on his feet from the couch, Merlin shakes his head violently, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. “Your cute little name, there, in front of Leon, and everyone. Calling me,” and humiliatingly enough, he actually has to fight not to blush just mentioning the word, “ _sweetheart_.”

Arthur only stares.

And stares.

Inevitably, Merlin feels his face start to heat up. He tilts his chin into an admittedly defensive position.

Tie half-done but abandoned, Arthur shrugs off his jacket and tosses it carelessly to the side of the room. He nudges off his shoes and then makes his way toward Merlin in his socks, peering close and squinty.

“You’re mad at me,” Arthur says slowly, “because I called you sweetheart?”

Obviously, Merlin doesn’t exactly rush to answer that.

“It’s,” Arthur’s saying now, hands moving to his pockets, mirroring Merlin, “you know, just a joke. It’s a. . . what are they called? A pet name. A term of endearment.”

“No,” Merlin says, before he realizes it.

“No?”

“That’s not what it is. You only use those when—“

A gradual, dawning look of comprehension is spreading across Arthur’s face. “When what?”

Merlin shakes his head.

Arthur, naturally, keeps pushing. “When what, Merlin? I only call you those things when _what?_ ”

Merlin glares. “Shut up, Arthur.”

“I don’t quite think I will,” Arthur hums. He smiles wickedly, hands abruptly coming out of his pockets to rest on the sharp edges of Merlin’s hips, fisting in the fabric of his shirt. His voice is nearly a purr when he whispers, “What exactly are you referring to, anyway? I can’t seem to recall. You’ll have to remind me—“

“When we’re fucking,” Merlin nearly shouts, jerking away.

The silence is excruciating.

“Well,” Arthur says finally. He tilts his head, considering. “At least you said it.”

Merlin just looks at him, wordless, and Arthur has the gall to follow it up with a sigh and a curious, “I thought we agreed that it wouldn’t be awkward?”

“Don’t bring _it_ up when we’re in public, then,” Merlin counters.

Arthur flaps his hands up into the air and back down. “Fine. I won’t! God, you can be so touchy sometimes.”

Merlin pulls a face—like a child, like an actual ten-year-old—and retreats to his bedroom. He hears Arthur doing the same. Still slightly queasy from the alcohol of the night before, he flops around on the squeaky mattress for half an hour or so before hearing a thud from the other room and Arthur’s muffled but no less cranky, “Will you just! Shut! Up!” and he’s tempted to retaliate with something bigger and more noisy just to spite Arthur, but is too lazy at this time of night to actually roll out of the bed. 

It’s totally dysfunctional, this relationship that they have. But whatever, Merlin thinks sleepily, nestling his head onto a pillow. It works.

\--

Except that it doesn’t.

Because Arthur is a lying bastard who apparently gets off on torturing him. And so the _pet names_ start cropping up everywhere.

At first, things go on as they normally do. That is, Merlin goes to work at his job in the downtown hotel, and Arthur goes to work at his ridiculous skyscraper of an accounting firm, and Arthur sends him approximately eleven text messages per day complaining about meetings he has to attend and demanding respite from his boredom, like Merlin is some sort of instant push-button entertainment system. They’re both home by five or six every day, and dinner is whatever has not yet expired in the fridge, or whichever take-out place’s menu is out on the counter.

On Wednesday afternoon, five days after Leon’s party and six days after the occurrence of the Mutually Awkward Thing They Don’t Refer To, Merlin gets a text that reads:

_Do you know how to make smoked salmon?_

He thumbs back, _Why in the world would I possess that knowledge_ , in between stacking towels and signing guests in at the lobby desk.

A beep, signaling a response:

_I’ve been craving it all day. Go and get me some._

Merlin snorts and tucks his phone back into his pocket, after reading the message. Right. Okay.

That night, he lets himself into the flat after work, to the sight of Arthur lounging around, looking expectant.

“What?” he asks.

“Did you get me my food?”

Merlin gapes. “Are you serious? Let me clarify that I only live with you. I’m not here to cater to your every whim. I am not your servant.”

“You should be,” is Arthur’s brilliant argument to that one.

“You wouldn’t even pay me.”

“But I would, ah,” Arthur stretches his legs out, heels resting on the edge of the coffee table, “compensate you in other ways.”

Despite himself, Merlin snickers.

“Referring to paying for food when we go shopping, and occasionally vacuuming the flat—!” Arthur’s eyes go wide. “Not—not whatever you were thinking, you complete filthy pervert.”

“I didn’t actually say anything,” Merlin points out. “You were the one to think it. So who’s actually the pervert?”

“Fuck off,” Arthur says good-naturedly. He pats the space next to him on the sofa, and Merlin automatically moves to slump down onto the cushion there. “So are we going out for dinner then, or what?”

So they do. They end up at one of the more expensive restaurants in the area, only because Arthur whines for an entire quarter of an hour about Merlin’s appallingly limited cooking abilities (“Why don’t _you_ learn how to cook fish if you want to eat it so badly?” Merlin wants to know, indignant) and how they’ve not had a proper meal in ages. 

Somehow, the conversation then devolves into an argument over bathroom-cleaning responsibilities and whose dirty socks those are that keep ending up stowed underneath the coffee table all the time, and Merlin’s enjoying himself too much with thinking up delightful and creative comebacks to Arthur’s insults to really notice the soft touch of Arthur’s hand on his waist, guiding him into the booth when they sit down.

He _does_ notice, however, when the waiter comes around to get their orders and Arthur turns to Merlin after picking out his own meal, smiles brightly, and says in a voice utterly laced with suggestion,

“And what are you getting, _baby?_ ”

Merlin, who’d been sipping on a glass of water, snorts all of it out of his nose. Little damp flecks appear down the entire spread of the tablecloth as he coughs forcefully and turns a dark shade of violet.

Their waiter looks fairly disgusted.

He manages to stammer out the name of a dish, apologizing and subtly trying to wipe the water off of his silverware with his sleeve, while Arthur sits there and shakes with silent laughter.

“The hell is wrong with you,” Merlin hisses at Arthur, once the waiter is out of sight.

Arthur presses his fist tightly against his lips, shaking his head mutely. When he’s stopped trembling, he opens his mouth just enough to gasp out, “Oh my _god_ —“

Merlin aims a kick at his shin. 

“Your face. Your _face_. We could market that or something—“

“Prick.”

“Hilarious,” Arthur says, wiping away what looks like an actual tear from his eye.

“I can’t believe you,” Merlin scowls, once he’s sure the color on his cheekbones has returned to something more natural than stark, beet-red. “I honestly cannot believe you. I thought you promised that you would stop bringing . . . that you wouldn’t _do that_ anymore.”

“I know—I know. But your _face_ ,” Arthur says.

Merlin groans, slumping in the seat. “Fuck. You are the worst person to have ill-advised sex with, ever.”

“Not like you can do anything to take it back now,” Arthur supplies helpfully.

“ _Thanks._ ”

“Oh. Oh, come on.” Arthur nudges him on the shoulder. He leans closer, dropping his voice to a low murmur. “Don’t be so dramatic! It’s not that bad, mate. At least the sex itself is fantastic.”

“Really.”

“Really,” Arthur mimics back, adopting a bizarrely high-pitched voice that is apparently supposed to be Merlin’s. He sniggers, then adds in a rather thoughtful tone, “You’re not so bad in bed yourself, you know. All in all, it could be worse.”

Merlin doesn’t quite know what to make of that. He opens his mouth, then closes it again without saying anything. Luckily, he’s saved from answering by the distraction of the food arriving at the table.

On the walk back from the restaurant to their flat, an hour later, Arthur is strangely quiet. Like he’s thinking something over very carefully—which is a rare occurrence in and of itself. Merlin prods at his side once, questioning, but Arthur only says, “Hm?” in a distracted way.

He doesn’t really speak until they’re inside the flat, peeling off jackets and scarves:

“Does it really bother you that much?”

“What?” Merlin asks, yawning.

“The names. The. . . Me calling you those things.”

Merlin pauses. “It’s just,” he says uncomfortably, because this is heading towards dubious ground he thought they’d both agreed not to tread on, “a little bit awkward, yeah.”

“Why?” 

“Is that a serious question?”

“Yeah.” Arthur sounds genuinely curious. 

“Because we’re not,” Merlin tries to explain, stops, and gestures randomly to the air with his arms. He tries to say, _because we’re not in a relationship or anything_ , but the words sound silly even in his head. He abandons the attempt and settles for a vague and somewhat cowardly, “I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, looking distracted again.

Merlin creases his eyebrows, but Arthur heads off to his bedroom without another word. He shrugs, casting the thoughts off for some other time, and resolves not to dwell too much on it at all.

\--

The thing about Merlin’s life, though, is that nothing ever goes according to plan. Anything he (foolishly) hopes will happen never does, and anything he tries to prevent always ends up happening anyway—and also, sometimes, entirely random things will hurl themselves unexpectedly out of nowhere just as an additional way for the universe to mess with him. 

For example, this:

Three completely uneventful days later, Arthur wakes him up in the middle of the night. By crawling into his bed.

“What’re you—what’s—“ Merlin struggles, groggy with sleep, peering at the shape of Arthur in the darkness.

“Hey,” Arthur whispers, too close to his ear.

“What the fuck are you _doing?_ ” Merlin whispers back, though he’s perfectly aware; it’s obvious, from the way Arthur’s fingers are curling in his thin cotton shirt, running gradually down the fabric, gentle enough to be a caress.

His heartbeat jumps. They don’t do this: not while sober, anyway. He moves to sit up, refuse, pry Arthur’s hands away, or something, because clearly Arthur is not in his right mind.

“I just.” Arthur doesn’t let go, but instead bends closer, warm breath (without any trace of the taste of alcohol in it) trailing a path over the length of Merlin’s exposed neck. He shuffles so that he’s nearly lying on top of Merlin, legs sprawled on either side. Hot skin and heavy weight. “I just need—“

“Go and watch a porno or something,” Merlin grunts. “I’m _sleeping—_ ”

“Please,” Arthur breathes, quiet and a little bit desperate, mouth now at Merlin’s jaw. “Been thinking about it for days, Merlin. Just. Please, let me, sweetheart—“

Fucking hell.

Merlin moans against his will when Arthur pushes down, moving their bodies so tightly together. And Arthur’s now kissing a hot, rapid trail down his collar—down his shoulder—shoving his shirt out of the way, impatient. All of his morals crack and crumple, disintegrating into ash on the floor, as he brings up a leg to wrap involuntarily around the muscles of Arthur’s back in response.

“That’s it, darling,” Arthur is whispering, lips giving way to teeth, crawling backwards down the bed to suck at the sharp bend of Merlin’s left hipbone.

“Fuck,” Merlin gasps. “You can’t—that’s just unfair—“

“You should see how you look right now,” Arthur says quietly, hooking a finger into the waistband of Merlin’s pants and pulling. Swiftly, he tugs them down and tosses them haphazardly to the floor.

“ _Me?_ How _I_ look?”

Merlin stares pointedly down his body, watching Arthur mouth at his skin; it’s dark in the room with only sparse moonlight straining through the window, but it’s still enough to see Arthur’s dimly flushed cheeks, his mouth slightly open, lips full and parted, giving way to pink tongue. The bright intensity of his eyes.

Strange, Merlin thinks, suddenly disoriented. This isn’t exactly new territory, here, but something—most likely the lack of inebriation—makes him see and feel everything so much more sharply.

“Yeah,” Arthur drawls, looking up and quirking his lips into a smile. “Yes, you. Look at you. All hot and bothered, just ‘cause I called you a name—it really _does_ something to you, doesn’t it?”

Merlin’s tempted to do something defensive in reply to that, like growl or kick Arthur in the chest, but his eyes catch onto the expression on Arthur’s face, and Arthur looks—well, _awed_ , almost. Reverent.

He clears his throat and tilts his gaze away, caught off guard.

Arthur opens his mouth wider, bending forward, and licks wetly up the entire underside of Merlin’s cock.

A broken moan hitches its way out of Merlin’s throat.

“I wanna fuck you,” Arthur breathes.

A heady rush of blood to his cock almost dizzies him; Merlin blows out a gust of air, closing his eyes and trying to calm his madly racing pulse, and he feels Arthur’s eyes intently on him all the while. 

“Okay,” he hears himself saying. “Okay. Fine.”

“’Fine’?”

“I mean, _yes_ ,” Merlin grits out, rolling his hips upward. “Yes, do it, _please_ , I want you to—“

“Yeah,” Arthur says, cutting him off, eager despite his attempts to hide it. “Yeah, okay,” and he’s scrambling up the bed again, pulling out the top drawer of Merlin’s nightstand and quickly rooting around in it, his chest pressed up to Merlin’s.

It doesn’t take that long to get the condom on, or for Arthur to stretch his fingers one by one into Merlin, murmuring soft, encouraging words that Merlin can and can’t catch but make his face heat up all the same. And then in no time at all Arthur is curling Merlin’s legs solidly up against his shoulders, gaze hot and burning, and pushing inside, inside, inside, and, 

saying things like,

“Fuck, you feel _so_ good, beautiful,”

so that Merlin groans out in between shuddering and writhing from the feel of it, “You don’t have to _soothe_ me, like I’m a girl, or—or something,” but Arthur smashes his mouth violently against his, drawing back only to hiss,

“You like it, though, you— _Ah_ , come on, sweetie, just like that,” when Merlin arches up into a concave curve off the sheets to meet his thrust, body trembling with the effort.

And Merlin _does_ like it. He feels himself spiraling down into a tight coil of pleasure with every word from Arthur’s mouth, every little endearment, and he can feel that Arthur likes it too; they’re sweating now, panting, gaining rhythm, heading so close for the edge of a bright, jagged precipice. 

All it takes is for Arthur to bow his body down close to Merlin’s head and murmur, “Come on, come, love, for me—“

and Merlin’s orgasm tears out of him like a flash of lightning, more radiant and intense than anything he’s _ever_ experienced. He barely registers Arthur’s low moan and the feel of him coming inside Merlin’s body, collapsing on top of him and knocking into Merlin’s chest, melding into his rapid drumming heartbeat.

Damn, this is _really_ going to complicate things, Merlin thinks, before passing out entirely.

\--

He’s alone when he wakes up, the next morning—rumpled and alone and slightly sore from sleeping with his limbs awkwardly arranged—and doesn’t know whether to feel grateful for it, or annoyed that Arthur always seems to manage to snake his way out of confrontation with such casual ease. Not that Merlin particularly wants to confront him, though; so he supposes it’s a good thing that Arthur has woken up first and left Merlin to do his quiet walk of shame out of the bedroom to an empty flat.

There’s a note stuck to the microwave for him that tells him Arthur’s gone into work (of course, even though it’s fucking Sunday, Merlin thinks with a roll of his eyes) but that he’ll probably be back for lunch.

At a quarter to twelve, true to his word, Arthur strolls neatly through the door, a plastic bag of something hot and nice-smelling in his hands.

“Brought food,” he says, swinging the bag, and then stops when he sees Merlin sitting on the couch, still in pajamas.

“Hey,” Merlin says, aiming for nonchalant. It comes out as something of an odd croak, though, because he honestly can’t pull off _casual_ to save anybody’s life.

He wonders if Arthur expects him to acknowledge the previous night, or just shove it away to not be ever be mentioned, like the other times. Is there a code to this after all? Drunken shagging with your mate is (maybe) okay to studiously ignore, but is it rude to pretend that it didn’t happen if both of you were sober during the act and still vividly remember it? Merlin’s just working up the courage to say something about it, maybe crack a feeble joke or two, when Arthur sniggers, drags his gaze across his body in a manner that’s more critical than suggestive, and says, “Have you been lazing about all morning in those clothes? That’s kind of pathetic.”

“I took a shower,” Merlin says defensively. 

“Incredible—I can’t even tell.”

“And I did the laundry.”

“Uh-huh.”

They hover there, looking at each other, until Arthur clears his throat pointedly and rattles the food at him. “Do you want to eat, or. . .?”

“Right, yeah,” Merlin says, nodding quickly and unfolding himself off the couch, into the kitchen.

Not mentioning it, then, he decides. All right, so Arthur doesn’t want to bring it up; he probably regrets it or thinks Merlin will get the wrong idea if he does, or something. Whatever. He almost breathes out a sigh in relief. Merlin is completely fine with that.

\--

But he’s wrong.

If Arthur hadn’t wanted to bring it up, then he wouldn’t be here, like this:

It’s a week or so later. Having nudged himself closer and closer by increments, Arthur is squeezed up against Merlin’s body as tightly as the chairs around Morgana’s dinner table will allow, his breath very hot on the inside curl of Merlin’s ear, and he’s gone from making random comments about the people sitting around them to whispering utter indecent _filth_ into it. 

All week, Merlin had been getting increasingly inappropriate texts—more so than usual. Emails, too. Mostly they were just terrible pick-up lines that make him snort out loud, but sometimes they were a little bit more suggestive, a little more lewd; he didn’t quite know how to reply to them. Didn’t know what they were supposed to mean. He’d snorted to himself and chalked it up to a product of Arthur’s boredom, and nothing more.

It certainly doesn’t feel like _boredom_ that’s hot and hard, now, edging into his thigh through multiple layers of clothing.

He struggles to listen to the story Gwen is telling their friends at the table, kicking Arthur violently in the ankle and trying to scoot away.

Arthur, undaunted and undeterred, stops him from moving away with a subtle hand wrapping around the back of his chair. “God, I love watching you squirm,” he breathes, voice soft and silky, a smile dancing at the corner of his lips.

Merlin flashes him a warning glare.

“What?”

“Can you not—? Stop it, Arthur, it isn’t funny—“

“Love it when you go all red and flushed for me,” Arthur continues, nearly purring, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Love how embarrassed you get. It’s adorable. You look so _good_ like this, too; it suits you. I bet you’re hard, right now, just from hearing me talk about all the things I want to do to you. Aren’t you?”

Miraculously, nobody around them is paying the slightest attention yet. 

But then Arthur, sliding his hand under the dip of Merlin’s trousers, whispers in a half-bitten groan, “I bet I could make you come, just like this, kitten,” and Merlin chokes, drops his fork in shock—it makes a horribly loud clatter against his wineglass.

They all turn to look at him. Everyone. Leon and Perce and Lena and everyone, even Gwen, who stops speaking mid-sentence and looks concerned.

“You, erm, all right there?” Gwaine asks from across the table, leaning forward. “You look a bit feverish, mate.”

“He’s fine,” Arthur drawls, thumping Merlin hard on the back.

“Are you sure?” Gwen reaches an arm out.

Merlin flinches back from it, involuntarily. At the expression on Gwen’s face, he shakes his head and manages to mutter, “Sorry, just. Feeling a bit ill tonight, I’m sorry. Should get some rest. I’ll excuse myself, if you don’t mind, Morgana. . .?”

He feels Arthur’s eyes on him, quiet and sharp, as he gets abruptly up from the table and waves a hasty goodbye to their friends, ignoring their bemused looks. The cool air outside hits him with full force when he closes the front door to Morgana’s place and steps onto the street, but he’s hoping it won’t take long to find a taxi.

Someone calls his name.

Merlin ignores it, pulling his coat closer.

“Merlin,” Arthur says again, this time closing a hand around Merlin’s elbow. He sounds annoyed, exasperated.

“Fuck off,” Merlin tells him politely.

“Are you seriously angry?” Arthur’s tone is disbelieving. “What, because of what I said? I mean, yeah, I know, _kitten_ was overdoing it a little, but I was just curious, if you would. And you did. You actually reacted—“ He breaks off into an unsure laugh.

“Look, I don’t care,” Merlin lies, as a cab rolls up to a stop in front of him. “I just want to go home. All right? Go back inside; tell Morgana thanks for the party and everything.”

“Merlin—“ Arthur starts.

Merlin gets in the car, and closes the door without listening to him finish.

Fucking Arthur, he thinks, pushing his head against the seat. It’s not so much that he’s breaking promises left and right by bringing up that _thing_ between them in public, again, but instead his ever-irritating sense of entitlement. It’s Arthur purposely being a prick and thinking he can go around doing anything he wants, because obviously, obviously the entire world exists just to amuse him.

Merlin’s in bed by the time Arthur gets back in. He hears Arthur pause at his open doorway for a moment, and pretends to be asleep.

\--

The morning of the next day, his phone won’t stop ringing.

“What?” Merlin sighs, finally snatching it out of his pocket after it buzzes to signal the fifth missed call in a row, and ducking into a linen closet at the side of the hallway to avoid being yelled at by his manager. “What _is_ it?”

“You’re not _really_ still pissed at me, are you?” 

Arthur sounds petulant. Probably scowling, with his legs flung across the surface of the wooden desk in his office.

Merlin waits.

Predictably, there’s a loud, drawn-out huff from the other end, and then: “Well, stop it. All right, just. You’re being fucking ridiculous.”

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” Merlin asks flatly, cradling the phone with his shoulder and leaning out the door to check for anyone heading down the hall. “Because, thanks and all, but I need to get back to work.”

“No, I am not fucking done—“ Arthur starts, in the prickly voice of one who does not deal well with being ignored for anything, before Merlin spots his supervisor coming around the corner and hangs up in a rush.

He’s getting ready to leave, later that night—clocking out of the electronic system, tugging on his jacket and chatting with a few co-workers—when he sees Arthur striding pompously across the hotel lobby, a self-important, dangerous smirk on his face.

Arthur goes, “Merlin, hey!” very loudly, cutting off Will’s invitation to go out for drinks mid-sentence and slinging an arm around Merlin’s shoulders.

Merlin quenches down the annoyance bubbling in his chest, and turns to lift an eyebrow at Arthur. He never comes into Merlin’s work.

“All right. So. What are we doing tonight?” Arthur nudges his arm with his hand. 

“I’m not getting home till later,” Merlin tells him. He tilts his head toward Will. “Going out with a friend, first.”

And then Arthur, to Merlin’s infinite irritation, does that _thing_ : he roves his eyes around to stare at Will, dragging a critical gaze down inch by inch from head to toe, a tiny quirk at the corner of his lips at the end purposely giving away his disdain. 

“Ri-i-i-ght,” Arthur says, slow. “Well, come on. I’ve got a dinner reservation.”

“I’m not—Arthur, did you hear me? I’ve already got plans.”

“But we need to be there by seven.”

“I’m not _going_.”

Arthur blinks at him. Then he scowls. “Thought you weren’t pissed at me anymore.”

With gritted teeth, Merlin reaches up and pulls Arthur’s arm away from his shoulders. “I didn’t. . . That’s not. . . Look, all right, can we do this some other time?”

“Or we could do this now,” Arthur says, his jaw set.

“Mate, I don’t really think he wants to talk to you,” Will steps in, eyebrows raised.

Arthur spins around with a stormy expression on his face, mouth open to say something undoubtedly rude, but Merlin pulls him back by the elbow before he can do any damage there. He gives Arthur a pointed look.

“Don’t be a prick, all right?” Merlin mutters under his breath.

“Right.” Arthur’s mouth twists. “Right, I’ll just leave, then. You have _fun_ , sweetie.”

And he backs away, flipping Merlin two fingers, before heading out the door without another glance back.

Will looks on, incredulous, but he’s gracious enough not to ask Merlin about it. 

\--

They end up getting really drunk, at the pub Will takes Merlin to—it’s small, and cramped, and loud, which is a setting that inspires immediate intoxication, somehow, so that by nine P.M. they’ve already worked their way toward a nice, steady buzz. A couple of Will’s old school friends meet up with them, around ten thirty, and it becomes a group contest to see who can drink the most without passing out or throwing up. Then, as the night goes on, Will keeps yelling out stupid, inappropriate jokes at the top of his lungs, and none of them can stop laughing hysterically at the slightest things, and Merlin’s actually pretty sure that they come very, very close to a fistfight with the barman at one point—but then it sort of just all melds together into colorful, peaceful blurs. All in all, a good night. Merlin stumbles up the stairs in his building sometime well after midnight, hiccupping, giggling to himself when it takes him ten minutes to fit the key in the lock and let himself in. 

He’s tired, and extremely drunk, and in general those two things in combination have a tendency to lead to a pretty bad scenario—but somewhere in the back of his mind, tonight, Merlin still has enough self-preservation to head immediately for his room and not stop to do anything he might regret. He _doesn’t_ sleep with his flatmate this time, and that’s a fact for which he is very, very (sadly) proud of himself.

\--

“Merlin’s not speaking to me,” Arthur tells Morgana casually, when she drops by their flat on a Friday.

“Great to see you, too,” she says. 

The clicking sound of heels echoes on the wood as Morgana makes her way into the living room to sit on the sofa. She waves a hello at Merlin, who’s sitting at the other end with his laptop perched on his knees. He waves back.

“Arthur’s not speaking to me,” Merlin tells her.

“Well, which is it?” Morgana wants to know, sounding amused.

Merlin shrugs, fingers toying with the strand of his headphones; Arthur just stands there and glowers for a minute, before heading off to his room and shutting the door behind.

It’s been a quiet week. Merlin had woken up late that day after the pub with Will, and Arthur seems to have taken his absence at their usual morning breakfast as a sign to stop talking, texting, or even greeting each other altogether. In childish retaliation, Merlin’s been taking on more afternoon and night shifts at work, so that now he only needs to see Arthur for a few hours each day. He’s even worked out a schedule of shared bathroom usage to avoid running into Arthur—written out, taped to the door for Arthur to read—and they’ve kept to it. By some unspoken, stubborn agreement, neither of them have initiated any sort of conversation in well over ten days; they’ve manage to inhabit the same space in complete silence. Sometimes he thinks he feels Arthur staring at him, but every time he turns, Arthur’s busy with something else, looking away.

Merlin is tired of the immaturity of the entire situation. And he sort of misses the daily text messages, just a little. Not that he’d admit it.

“Whatever,” Morgana says, shaking her head. “Merlin, you’re still coming to Gwen’s birthday thing tomorrow night, right?”

“Oh—shit,” Merlin says. He’d forgotten.

Morgana snorts. “Yeah, I knew you wouldn’t remember; I wanted to let you know we’re all going to meet at that club down the street from here. Do me a favor and remind Arthur, too?”

“He probably won’t go,” Merlin mutters. “If I go.”

She looks at him carefully. “Yeah? So what’d you do?”

“Nothing! I— _he_ was the one who was being rude to my friend, and I told him so, and before that there was all this stupid shit with—“ Merlin stops, frowning. “It’s just. I mean, you know him. You know what he’s like. Does it ever seem like he just sort of flings people around like they don’t matter at all?”

“You’re his best friend,” Morgana says quietly.

It takes him by surprise. Makes his thoughts skitter to a stop. “What?”

“I should go,” Morgana says, standing up and straightening her jacket. “See you tomorrow? Both of you,” she adds meaningfully.

Merlin’s still blinking after her when she leaves, wondering what he’s supposed to make of that.

\--

He texts Leon, later, to ask if he can text Arthur, to remind him about Gwen’s party.

(No, Merlin is not a coward. He’s just—well, you know. Tactical.)

\--

“You’re late!” is the first thing Morgana inevitably shouts at him, the next day, when he makes his way into the crowded club on Saturday night. She’s perched at the side of the bar, waiting with legs crossed and eyebrows elegantly arched, a half-drained cocktail in hand.

Music thrums out of the dark walls, and Merlin has to squeeze his way past at least fifty people to get to her side. The lights on the ceiling strobe, wildly, throwing colors everywhere. 

“Barely,” Merlin protests, pulling his phone out to check the time. He tugs out the little wrapped-at-the-last-minute box from his pocket, while he’s at it. “Is—d’you know where Gwen—“

“Over there,” Morgana waves her hand vaguely to the middle of the dark, flashing floor. “Everyone’s just started dancing.”

“Not you, though?”

She just rolls her eyes. Abruptly, he’s pushed forward with a sharp, painful nail to the middle of his back, and he staggers into the crowd of loud, messy bodies before he can shoot a complaint back at her.

The dance floor is bright, explosive, and heady. It takes a minute or two to spot Viv and Leon and the rest of their friends, and Gwen is not far away, dancing, a silly plastic princess crown tangled crookedly in her hair (Merlin recognizes it as what can only be a present from Gwaine; it’s exactly the sort of thing he would get her). 

“Happy birthday,” he yells into the shell of her ear when he moves close enough, grinning when Gwen turns to give him a hug. “I’m sorry I’m late—“

“Hey! You made it, though!” Gwen says, delighted. She pulls him by the hand into the group. “I started to think that you were coming. Arthur’s already here—“

Merlin follows the direction of her point, but only briefly, just enough to catch the side of Arthur’s head, bent low, engaged in conversation with some girl he vaguely recognizes. His hair gleams in the sudden flash of red, yellow, white. 

“This is for you,” Merlin says, turning back quickly, pressing the small present into Gwen’s hand. “You can open it later, if you want.”

Gwen leans in for another hug, smiling, and Merlin smells a mixture of perfume and alcohol in her hair. He looks up over his shoulder and Arthur is looking his way, now, eyes cautious.

Before either of them can be the first to break the contact, someone’s clapped a hand on Merlin’s arm—Gwaine, when he looks—and is greeting him animatedly, dragging him over to a small circle of other people. Viv and Perce come up to dance on either side of him, dancing, and he lets himself be swept up into it—the music, the movement, the sweat; all of it. Fuck it, he thinks lightly. Might as well have a good time tonight.

It’s two hours and an unknown number of vodka shots later before Merlin actually notices Arthur’s gaze on him, careful and quiet.

He raises his chin boldly in Arthur’s direction, over the heads of the people around him—it’s a question, and a challenge. Arthur slips off the stool at the bar where he’s sitting and begins to make his way steadily toward him. Like he’s been waiting a while for Merlin to notice.

It annoys him, for some reason. His head is already dizzy, torn between resentment and apathy and just wanting to wipe the half-smile off of Arthur’s stupid face.

When Arthur’s close enough, all he does is offer a nod and bump Merlin’s shoulder with his own. Friendly. Safe.

Something restless simmers unreasonably in Merlin veins, at that. So he takes a hand and slings it around the back of Arthur’s neck, maybe a bit too rough—Arthur flinches, taken by utter surprise, but Merlin just wrenches at the strands of his hair, bringing his head near to ghost a breath over Arthur’s cheek, and drag his lips against his mouth.

“Merlin, w—“

“Shut up,” he says, surging forward, lunging at Arthur with his eyes closed, voice almost slurring. “Just _shut_ up.”

Astonishingly, Arthur does. He yields to Merlin’s tongue, lets Merlin’s fingers keep their too-tight grip on his wrists.

The music changes to something darker, with a rapid bass line. Merlin has the sudden, vicious desire to turn the tables a bit—to make Arthur be the one who wants this, to make him pant and flush with embarrassment, for once. He stumbles closer, shameless, hips canted obscenely. He lowers his mouth to Arthur’s ear and bites lightly down on the skin at the top of it.

Audible over the music comes a low, deep moan from Arthur’s throat.

Satisfaction swells pleasantly in Merlin’s chest at the sound. 

The lights above his head flash again and again, making everything spin. He moves even closer under the pretense of dancing, sliding his body against the slick heat of Arthur’s, through the layers of their clothing; when Arthur shudders, he snakes a hand between them, dipping under the worn leather of Arthur’s belt. 

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is unsteady.

“What.”

“Don’t,” Arthur breathes. Merlin looks up: his eyes are averted, and he’s biting his bottom lip. “Stop it. Please.”

“Why not?” Merlin asks casually, not moving his fingers from where they are. He hooks a leg around the back of Arthur’s knee, dragging their thighs together.

“There are—I mean, people—everyone can see us—“

He stops immediately, freezing, and Arthur seems to realize at the same instant that it’s absolutely the wrong thing to say. He opens his mouth and tries to cover it with something else, but Merlin’s already shoving away, eyes narrowed.

“Fuck you, you _hypocrite_.”

“You’re drunk,” Arthur says tonelessly.

“I’m. Okay. Yeah, and so what? What does that matter? At least I don’t—don’t screw people over, play games, fuck with them just ‘cause, ‘cause—“

Merlin doesn’t finish the sentence, because Morgana comes into sight that very moment at their side and very pointedly nudges him, shouting, “Having a good time, boys?” 

He doesn’t even bother to look at Arthur again before turning around and walking off the floor, annoyed at the resentment still bubbling inside him. He catches Gwen on his way out of the club to wish her a happy birthday again, and manages to stumble somewhat at least soberly down the street, all the way up the stairs in the building of his flat.

It’s nice and quiet in the living room—the silence almost startling, compared to the noise of the club. Merlin’s phone rings, once, and he throws it against the wall without looking at the number. 

\--

He’s sitting cross-legged on the couch in the dark, later, having alternated for several hours between fuming at the world and stumbling around, knocking his shins on the furniture. Or doing both, simultaneously. Presently, his hands are wrapped around a cool, sensible glass of water and he’s half-heartedly watching some random program on the television, but forgoing actually paying attention to it in favor of brooding over how quickly the night had deteriorated, and over the last few months of his life in the city, and possibly over his entire fucking existence in general. 

“Merlin?”

Arthur’s voice floats quietly over from a few feet behind him. Merlin flinches in surprise—he hadn’t heard the door open.

 _Great_ , he thinks, sighing.

“Are you,” Arthur rounds the side of the room and perches slowly on the edge of the coffee table in front of him, opposite the couch. He holds a hand out, hesitant. “What are you doing, sitting in the dark? Are you _crying?_ ”

“What?” Merlin sputters, twisting away and rubbing at his eye. “No, what the—what the fuck, that’s so fucking—why would I, that’s really stupid—“

“Hey,” Arthur says, sounding strange. He pulls Merlin’s hand away, into his lap, and keeps it there, fingers a warm pressure against Merlin’s palm. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Merlin shakes his head.

Arthur makes a huffy noise, stroking his fingers absentmindedly across Merlin’s skin. Pushing for an answer, as usual.

“I miss my mother,” Merlin blurts, a bit nonsensical, still, despite having sobered up considerably in the past three hours. And once he’s said that, he might as well continue with the rest: “I miss—I hate being here. In this city. I’m sick of it, and I’m sick of people being weird and not saying what they mean and playing tricks all the time. Maybe I just—“ he breaks, hiccups, “—want something real, you know? For once? Maybe I want to have real relationships and real friends, not ones who only mess around with me when they feel like having a bit of a laugh—“

Arthur’s fingers tighten fleetingly around his wrist.

Merlin looks down, confused, but he must have imagined the sensation, because it’s gone, half a second later.

“Anyway,” he finishes, somewhat feebly, “I’m probably going to move back home.”

He wipes embarrassingly at his face with his free hand, trying to hold back a sniffle. 

Arthur is quiet for long enough that Merlin starts to think he hasn’t heard any of it. “When?” he asks finally, staring behind him at the wall.

“I don’t know. Soon.”

The only source of light in the room is the blue glow of the television, too dim for Merlin to make out the expression on Arthur’s features.

An indeterminable amount of time passes. Merlin’s hand is still clasped between Arthur’s.

And then:

“You should stay,” Arthur says. He sounds uncomfortable.

“Hm?”

“Here—in the city, I mean. You can’t just. . . Look. Just. I want you to stay.” It’s unlike Arthur to trip over his words; he’s always so smooth, refined.

Merlin’s mouth curls up into a wry, sad smile. “You’re part of the problem, you know. Maybe even the _whole_ problem.”

Arthur frowns, and his thumb traces unconsciously over Merlin’s knuckles—soft, close, and unexpectedly tender. 

Minutes pass. The gentle ticking of a clock from the kitchen can be heard, and with every second’s space of silence, the air between them becomes weirdly charged with in a way Merlin can’t quite describe. He finds himself holding his breath without meaning to do so, like he’s waiting for something without knowing what it is.

And then Arthur pulls away entirely.

Tone suddenly bordering on acidic, he says—

“It’s funny. ‘Cause the thing is, to me, _you’re_ sort of the problem.”

Merlin blinks. He’s certain he heard wrong.

“Sorry, what?”

Arthur’s jaw is set, stubborn and resolute, looking like he’s finally decided something very important. All hard edges now. Carrying on, he shifts back to lean against the surface of the coffee table, and says, “I don’t really think you have any right to complain about anything, when _I’m_ the one _you’ve_ been torturing, for months now.”

Merlin opens his mouth, utterly disbelieving, and finds he can’t even make an actual sound.

“Will you at least admit it?” Arthur is saying.

When his voice returns to him, all he manages to stammer out is, “Are you _touched?_ ”

Arthur meets his gaze calmly.

“How—please. Pray tell. I’m sorry, I don’t. . . How have _I_ been torturing you?”

“Well,” Arthur says, in a perfectly reasonable tone that belies his apparent sudden-onset insanity, “for one thing, you’re such a fucking _tease_.”

Merlin stares.

And stares.

“I’m,” he says, enunciating each syllable, “a tease. I am.”

“You are,” Arthur scowls, tension edging into his voice.

“What—how—“ Merlin doesn’t understand. At all.

“Oh, _please_ , like you’re not aware of it.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, equal parts annoyed and alarmed now. He fumbles for the chain of the lamp on the side table, soft yellow light quickly flooding the room, and peers closely at Arthur’s pupils for any indication of the influence of hallucinogenic drugs. “Arthur, what the hell? This isn’t _funny_ , whatever game you’re trying to—”

“It’s not a game!” Arthur shouts, sudden and frustrated.

Merlin laughs, the sound a bit more bitter than he intends. “Right, of course not. I forget. It’s just you. Wanting a little excitement, or whatever. Hooking up with me when you feel like it, only because there’s nothing better; that is _definitely_ an okay thing to do.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says, and his voice is low. “ _You’re_ the one who started it, that first time.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault!”

“Obviously—“ Grounding his teeth audibly together, Arthur pitches abruptly forward and fists his hand in the material of Merlin’s shirt to bring their bodies close. “Obviously it’s your fault, when you go around like that, fucking seducing people when you don’t mean it at all—“

“I’m sorry, _what?_ The hell? We’re still talking about me, right?” 

Merlin tries to jerk out of Arthur’s grasp, but Arthur holds firmly on.

“You’re the one who made it seem like you were interested, all that time. But don’t worry,” Arthur all but spits, breath flinchingly hot against his face, “you’ve made it very clear lately—last week, especially—that you’re actually not. So I’d appreciate if you’d stop fucking around with me, now.”

“I’m fucking around?” Merlin’s aware that he’s shouting, probably too loudly for this hour of the night, but he feels aggravation clawing at his skin, threatening to spread and overcome him. “God, that’s rich. You’ve been going around, using your stupid fucking pet names on me for weeks, teasing and mocking and being an all-around dick about everything—“

“I wasn’t being a dick!” Arthur protests, his eyes wide. “I—“

“What?” Merlin snaps. “Give me a break. Are you going to try and tell me that it was your way of _wooing_ me, or something?”

Chest heaving, he slumps back on the couch, feeling tired and drained and completely unresolved. Arthur’s hand slips listlessly away from his shirt, dropping down into the air.

He has to wonder sometimes why this is his life—what he ever did to deserve this. He’s supposed to be happy, goddamn it. Everyone around him seems to be wrapped up in nice, stable relationships with lovely people, but of course Merlin’s the one who ends up with the crazy, arrogant flatmate whose idea of a fun time is to take the piss out of him by first sleeping with him, and then being as horrible about it as possible.

Drenched in self-pity, it takes a while to realize how quiet the room is.

Merlin glances up. 

Arthur’s watching him, mouth curled down, and he looks miserable.

Thrown off, Merlin backtracks over the last thing he said, remembering that he hadn’t received a response. What did he ask? Something about Arthur being a dick. Or not. Demanding the reason behind it. And. . . 

Oh. 

Maybe—

That’s insane, but such is his life, after all, and just maybe—

_Oh._

He says, tentatively, “Arthur?”

Arthur’s eyes flick to his for a moment, and then he turns away, out of the light. Elbows on his knees, his hand comes up to rub tiredly at his cheek. 

“Were you. . .” And Merlin can’t even dare to say it, in case he’s wrong, because that would only give Arthur more ammunition, more things to tease him ruthlessly about. But he thinks about the past few months, really thinks about them, about every little thing that Arthur’s done, every touch and jibe and smile and teasing word. And he knows that _has_ to ask. “Did you.” 

He forces himself to swallow down his uncertainty.

“Were you. . . were you trying to—erm—woo me? After all?”

Arthur makes a little noise in the back of his throat that sounds a tiny bit like he’s in pain, but he doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t deny it, either.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers. And he closes his eyes and thinks into the blackness behind them, wildly, desperately: _say yes._ He hadn’t realized until now how badly he wants to hear it.

But Arthur never responds.

After the worst fifteen silent seconds of Merlin’s life, he resigns himself to having to face the real truth: all of it, the humiliation and the sadness and the regret over what could have been. He imagines he’ll see Arthur, probably stifling back a laugh, ready with a _Sorry, mate, but you’re completely delusional._ Bracing for it, he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.

Arthur’s still there, sitting, studying him.

At least he’s not laughing.

Merlin sighs and tells himself resolutely that it doesn’t matter. That he didn’t care, anyway. That he doesn’t even _feel_ anything for Arthur that’s more than shallow physical attraction, so. Whatever. It’s not like his heart is breaking or anything dramatic like that. He’ll move on, and find new friends, and get over it.

“I. . .”

And that’s when Arthur lunges unexpectedly forward, rising from the coffee table in a jerky, rapid movement, and his tongue presses its way into Merlin’s mouth, and it’s so startling and weird and possibly brilliant that Merlin yelps, jolting backwards; Arthur follows, pitching forward and basically landing in Merlin’s lap with his legs digging in on either side. He wraps an arm around to pull roughly at Merlin’s hair, the other one braced against the back of the cushions, leaning all his weight onto Merlin’s chest, which makes Merlin fall back—

and that’s when the couch tips over backwards with their combined momentum, crashing to the ground—

“Holy shit, _ow_ ,” Merlin shouts, his head throbbing from contact with the hard wood floor, but they’re tangled in a mess of hot, heavy limbs and Arthur’s still kissing him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do in the entire fucking world and it feels so fine-lovely-wonderful-perfect that he can’t think of a single thing to say, after that.

\--

They don’t fuck right there on the living room floor—Arthur’s got this mad gleam in his eye that says he wants to, but Merlin firmly draws the line, wincing at the idea of all those extra bruises. So he staggers to his feet, instead choosing to seize Arthur’s shirttail and half-pull, half-wrestle him across the room and the hall to a bed (and whose, he doesn’t even know/care), and climb his way onto it, settling his legs down across either side of Arthur’s body.

He fists his hands in Arthur’s shirt, watching Arthur bite his lip down hard when he accidentally pinches skin through the thin cotton; he lets his fingers run soothingly down the soft red flushes dispersed across Arthur’s chest, next, slowing when his thumb reaches the top of Arthur’s trousers. The fabric is surprisingly soft.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, quiet and short of breath.

Bending down, Merlin presses his lips close to Arthur’s ear and tries not to tremble with the strength of holding himself up over Arthur like that. Arthur adjusts his body on the mattress underneath him, muscles moving and shifting. It sends electric shudders through Merlin’s nerves. There are so many things he’s bursting to say, and sigh, and ask, and his mind reels through all of them before settling on:

“So this is a ‘yes,’ then?”

Arthur looks dazed. “What?”

“My question. I asked if—if all the pet names, all the teasing, if it—“

“You’re an oblivious idiot,” Arthur mutters, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

“That’s not an answer, Arthur.”

Arthur eyes him warily for a moment before turning his head away, a red flush rinsing into his neck. Merlin watches it spread like dark wine on a silk tablecloth.

He slides two of his fingers up to press down at the skin, mesmerized; it’s hot under his hand, and a speckled pressure trail of faint white ovals appears as he drags upward, across Arthur’s chin and jaw.

Arthur mumbles, throat working under Merlin’s hand, “Like you don’t know the answer.”

“I don’t,” Merlin nearly growls. “I really don’t. I don’t get half of the reasons behind any of the bizarre crap you pull, you know that? It’s a simple yes or no—“

“Maybe that’s because you’re simple and ignorant and—“

“Why won’t you just—“

“Yes,” Arthur says, loud and clear and defiant. “Yeah, all right? _Yes._ ”

He clears his throat, awkward in a way that is somehow unfitted to his personality. But he doesn’t look away from Merlin, eyes wide and intense, like a dare.

It’s all—everything—that Merlin needs.

“Okay.”

The next few minutes are a blur of hands and heat and tangled limbs—Merlin almost drops sideways off the bed when Arthur sits up, pawing at his collarbone before biting bright red bruises into it. He gasps as Arthur reaches a hand down into his pants, unconsciously letting his legs fall open and curling them around Arthur’s back; they press closer and closer together, until no single inch of skin is left untouched, and the feeling is so all-consuming that he doesn’t immediately realize that Arthur’s speaking—

“. . . tendency to overreact,” Arthur murmurs into his neck just under his ear, between slow, careful bites. “And so damn _sensitive_. If it weren’t for that, we’d be doing this months ago—“

“You’re just as bad,” Merlin protests, shamelessly rocking himself up and down on Arthur’s lap. “You don’t ever say what you _mean_. How was I supposed to. . . It’s to be expected that I misinterpret things, when—oh, hell, that feels—when you—you—“

“Yeah, _I’m_ the one that’s bad with words.” Arthur hides his smirk in Merlin’s cheek, following it with a surprisingly tender kiss.

He doesn’t even have a retort, because Arthur chooses that particular instant to twist the clever hand in his pants. He’s almost cruel about it, stroking and coaxing and _whispering_ at his ear: dirty things, sugary things, nonsensical things. Things like “sweetheart” and “want to fuck you, be inside you, want it all, want—“ and “just look at you, darling, so perfect—“ 

And when Merlin comes, it’s with Arthur’s lips pressed tightly to his jaw.

\--

He wakes up groggy and strangely breathless. The sun is bright and harsh on his eyes, bursting through in spurts of red and orange; it must be close to mid-morning. He’s got a headache, and not for the first time in his life (or the second, or even, if he’s despairingly honest with himself, the third, or the fourth, or—), Merlin is disoriented by the too-familiar dizziness of not knowing exactly where he is or how he’s gotten there. Everything feels like it’s spinning.

With patience, however, the surroundings gradually come back to him, right-side up: plain white walls, stacks of leather shoes by the closet. Okay. So this is Arthur’s room, then. 

Arthur’s suit jackets hung up at the back of the door.

Arthur’s sheets around his waist.

Arthur.

He coughs, heartbeat stuttering, and slowly realizes that his breathlessness is due to the arm draped solidly across his chest, constricting his intake of air. The arm that doesn’t belong to his body. Merlin follows the line of it back to a bare set of shoulders and a scratchy mess of bright blonde hair fanned out on the mattress next to him. 

“Um,” he says, trying to subtly shove the arm away.

Arthur’s grip around his chest tightens.

“I can’t breathe.”

Arthur mumbles sleepily, into the pillow, “Grrmph.”

Merlin tries to roll away, but only succeeds in tangling closer.

From this new angle, the sun from between the shades catches on the longest tips of Arthur’s hair; it sets him momentarily alight with a gold, fiery glow that makes Merlin have to squint his eyes to look at. He coughs, trying to disregard the weird sudden fluttery thing in his throat that seems to have settled there of its own accord, and aims a kick at Arthur’s shin.

“Aghh— _what?_ ”

“Oxygen,” Merlin coughs out, yanking at Arthur’s insistent iron-weighted arm and finally pushing it off his chest. He ignores the little part of him that mourns the loss of heat. “Kind of need it.”

“So.”

“So stop suffocating me in my sleep.”

Arthur finally fully blinks open his eyes, and Merlin has to clear his throat and look away from the intensity of his stare. He’s unsure, suddenly, of the state of things; is one of them supposed to make some sort of gesture? Are they still on the same solid ground as before, or is this going to be weird and awkward, or is everything simply ruined—

But then Arthur sniffs, shuddering out a yawn and stretching his limbs out to the headboard (like a cat, just like a cat) before curling up once more around Merlin, and then the familiar heat of his skin is back, and it feels nice enough that Merlin can’t bring himself to complain again. So he just squirms into a slightly more comfortable position, the fluttering feeling in his throat quickly dissolving into something safe, happy, and content.

\--

Gwaine yells, “I _knew_ it. All right, let it be known that I fucking knew it.”

Perce raises his eyebrows, shrugs, and says, “Figured as much, what with the way he was so damn possessive around you all the time. Dunno how you didn’t notice.”

His mother, hundreds of miles and a fuzzy phone connection away, thinks it’s wonderful how well he’s “finally settling in,” and reminds him to come home for the holidays.

Will only shakes his head with a bemused expression and offers a beer.

Lena, Viv, and Gwen, it turns out, have made bets—Gwen wins, by the looks of the gleeful, uncontained grin on her face. (Merlin sees Lena and Viv reluctantly handing over banknotes and still arguing over certain technicalities interfering with the validity of the win, later.)

Leon smiles genuinely and offers his congratulations, while his fiancée gives a confused frown and asks, “Weren’t you, already? I mean, because I assumed. . . months ago. . .”

Morgana just laughs.

\--

It doesn’t matter, anyway. 

“So it appears that everybody we know already thought we were together, or at least fucking,” Merlin reports at the end of the day, dropping down onto the couch beside Arthur after tossing his jacket and shoes to the ground.

Arthur’s arms come to circle around Merlin’s shoulders, chin tucked at the crook of Merlin’s neck, his book falling abandoned to the floor with a thump. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

“It’s probably your fault. No, wait, it’s definitely your fault.”

Arthur hums, “Yeah,” into the curve of Merlin’s collarbone, not sounding the slightest bit contrite. He bites lightly down, and Merlin shivers.

He realizes he doesn’t quite care for the amusement of their friends, or anyone else’s opinion, actually; not when Arthur’s here, next to him, licking a slow, wet path down his spine, hands pressed close against his body, heat spreading all over Merlin’s skin. Everything else is just irrelevant, immaterial.

“The pet names,” Merlin groans out, head tilting backward. (And one would think they would have learned their lesson about doing this on the couch again, but.) “I blame it on your stupid—“

It doesn’t matter, because there’s just this: Arthur’s lips, fingers, tongue. All the time, whenever he wants. It’s Arthur, just the same as it’s ever been, but now with the added benefit of slow, laughing kisses in the morning and hot dragging gasps under the covers. All of Arthur’s old silly arrogance, his stubbornness and pride, but directed in a way that makes Merlin’s vision go blurry and his head loose with pleasure. He could definitely, definitely get used to this, he thinks.

“I’ll stop, if you want,” Arthur says, pulling away with a small lift of his eyebrows. His tone is teasing, but his eyes are serious. “If you’re really that worked up about it.”

“Don’t,” Merlin tells him, sighing when Arthur’s hands slide back under his shirt and start to pinch faintly at his skin. “You know I—just, just don’t.” He huffs and adds for good measure, because he’s still trying to retain some of his dignity (even though sometimes it feels a bit like a lost cause, like when he’s panting under Arthur’s hands, flushed and moaning, pinned to the bed, for example), “Don’t ever stop, you—you irritating, self-satisfied—“

“Whatever you say, my dear,” Arthur whispers into Merlin’s neck, and Merlin can feel the pleased, honest curve of his smile when he arches up to meet it, because of the way it mirrors his own.

END


End file.
